Impressive acting, JC thought. Still. Could be truthful.
“Okay. What about the garage?”
“What garage?” The General’s voice was getting louder.
“You’re saying you don’t know?”
“I’ve had about enough of this crap, boy. Listen. You do the job, you don’t do the job. I don’t give a damn. You’ve been fartin’ around so much with shifty people in backwards little countries all across the world that your mind’s all twisted up in tiny little knots.” He stood, straightened his jacket. “Next time you see me, you start jabbering on about this line of crap or that, it’ll be the last time. I’ll break your damn jaw like I shoulda done ten years ago. You hear me?”
The General turned and strode towards the door. His two aides rose slowly and backed away from Duke and Joan. After the three had gone, JC’s team joined him at his table in the back.
“Was it him?” Duke asked. The General had been rather loud at the end, his displeasure with JC clear. Duke still didn’t like being this close to The General, especially on the wrong side of him.
JC was quiet. “Not sure.”
“Not sure yes or not sure no?” Joan asked.
“The fire? Not his style,” JC said, “so I doubt it.” Paused. “The guys in the Camry? He’s right. He would’ve hired domestically. Plus I don’t think he recognized the duffle bag. Still.” The General’s denials weren’t as clear cut as JC would have liked.
JC’s team would have to wait for a more complete answer. He needed to sift through the information and emotions in his head before he could communicate more completely with them. Maybe no more information even then.
“So what’s next?” Joan said.
“Sleep?” Duke offered.
“You slept all the way here,” Joan said.
“Sorry, Duke,” JC said. “We’ve gotta go to D.C.”
Duke groaned dramatically.
“Take the SUV?” Joan asked.
“Bad idea. But I told Kowalski we’d have it for another twenty-four hours.”
“Hell yeah it’s a bad idea,” Duke said. “If The General hasn’t been following us, it had to be Kowalski.”
“Or the senator,” JC said. “Or the Bolivians. Or the Saudis.” Duke looked sheepish at the mention of the Saudis. “There’s a laundry list of people who hate us, Duke. Get used to it or get out of the business. Besides. You have a better idea on how to get all that hardware to D.C. than an SUV with government plates?”
Duke was quiet. Chastised. JC realized how stressed he had been. And tired.
“You want to drive, Duke?” JC said, trying to smooth things over. “Give me a chance to rest up a bit?”
The younger man’s eyes lit up. Like a kid, JC thought. Deadly, but just like a kid at times.
Chapter 14
Iraq. 2003.
Bannister stood outside the office. Waiting. Cooler in here with the air conditioning. But he was still sweating.
“I told you I don’t need more drivers! Don’t bring me any more drivers. I need some more killers! Now go find me a goddamn killer!”
Brigadier General Marvin O. Robinson was well known as a hard driving commanding officer who expected the best from his men and lit into them when they didn’t achieve it. He was also the former CO of JC’s father and a good friend of the family. JC hadn’t seen him in close to ten years. But here, in Iraq, The General needed a driver. Correction, a killer. And JC thought he was that man.
The General’s aide exited the office, face as red as his short hair. Saw JC. “Sergeant Bannister?”
“Yes,” JC said to the private.
“General Robinson will see you now, sir.”
JC walked into the office. Spartan. Small. Tan. General Robinson sat at his nearly empty desk; laptop, bottle of water, opened file.
“Sit, Sergeant Bannister.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The General read his file. Closed it. Put it down.
“You heard my conversation with Private Hendricks?”
“The tail end of it, sir.”
“Too many soldiers think they can drive and then find themselves boxed in and under fire from insurgents and the like. Damn near got my leg blown off last week because my driver couldn’t see the Taliban set up a kill zone on the road.”
” remained silent. There had been no question. General Robinson looked at JC. Hard. For two minutes. Stood. Walked to the edge of his desk.
“You remember me, son?”
“Yes, sir. You’re Brigadier General Robinson, sir.”
“I did not ask you if you knew my name and rank, sergeant. I asked you if you remembered me. Do I need to repeat my question?”
“No, sir, you do not. I remember you, sir. You were my father’s commanding officer when he was stationed in North Carolina, sir.” JC had paused. Unsure if he should press his luck or not. Decided he should.
“You were a damn fine grill man, sir,” he had continued.
The General smiled.
“That I was, son.”
“I have yet to have a hamburger near as delicious as the ones you served up from the half-barrel grill you and my father made.”
“And you never will, son. What was your daddy’s opinion of me?”
“Sir?”
“Son, I am beginning to think you need to stop by the medical tent and have one of those pretty nurses check your hearing.”
“No, sir. That will not be necessary, sir.”
“Then answer the question, boy.”
“My father said that half the time you were a helluva CO, sir”
“And the other half?”
“The other half of the time he said you were the stupidest sonofabitch he’d ever had the misfortune of laying his sorry eyes on. Sir.”
“You have a detailed memory, son.”
“He said it quite a bit, sir.”
The General sat back down at his desk. Looked out the window.
“Sergeant Bannister, your father was perhaps the finest and most honorable military man I have ever encountered in this United States Army. Or any service, for that matter.”
“He said the same of you, sir.”
“Can you drive a Humvee, son?”
“Better than you can grill a burger, sir.”
The General looked JC dead in the eye. “I need killers, not drivers. Are you a killer son?”
“I am a Ranger in the Army of the United States of America, sir”
“Which means what exactly?”
“Which means I am one of the finest killing machines our great nation has ever had the pleasure of producing, sir.”
JC got the job.
Chapter 15
Above Your Pay Grade
It was three thirty in the afternoon on a Saturday and JC was sitting in a bar.
He had slept most the way from New York to D.C. Had dreams of the past. Of The General. Of Iraq. Back in D.C., the team had gone their separate ways at the car park on 8th Street. The orders were to take the rest of the weekend off and meet up on Capitol Hill at eleven a.m. Monday morning. Duke had taken the various weapons they had collected over the past twenty-four hours for safekeeping. JC called Kowalski to set up a meet to return the SUV as promised. Kowalski had wanted to meet in some bar on the outskirts of Alexandria.
Which was where JC was sitting. Waiting, not ordering any alcohol so as to keep his head clear. The string of non-alcoholic drinks was beginning to irritate the barkeep. She appeared to be a fearsome woman. Not to be irritated lightly.
The door opened, drenching the darkness in the light of outside. Kowalski walked in. Adjusted his eyes to the lower light. Found JC, walked over and sat next to him.
“So, you have a nice trip to NYC?”
JC was trying to keep things friendly. Business-like. But something about the way Kowalski approached him put him on edge.
“Uneventful. Your truck’s out back. I didn’t fill it up.”
“Do I need to check it for bombs?”
JC’s irritation turned to pure dislike. He turned on his barstool. “Listen, buddy. You know damn good and well if I was going to kill you, you wouldn’t need to ask. Here’re the keys.” Dropped them on the bar and stood up. “See you later.”
Kowalski smiled. Magnanimous. Anger at the insult poorly hidden. “Come on, man. I’m just messing with you. Can’t an old Army buddy do that anymore?”
JC shook his head, his mouth pursed in disapproval. Maybe Kowalski was his friend. He had precious few friends left in this world. Still. Something was off about the man. JC sat back down. He needed to find out what it was. “Sorry, man. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
The tension in Kowalski’s bearing dissipated as he ordered a Jack and Coke. “This thing with the senator has me confused,” he said.
“Yeah? Me too,” JC said.
“How so?”
“Just messy,” JC replied. “Messy stuff, the private sector.” He didn’t know how much Kowalski knew. Needed to draw it out of him.
“Still, I just don’t get why she would outsource this to an outsider,” Kowalski said.
JC smiled into his iced tea. The man was bluffing. Fishing. Good. The senator wasn’t a complete liar. But she had still lied about something small. Why would she lie when the truth was merely inconvenient and slightly embarrassing? His smile disappeared. He couldn’t trust her at all. Or Kowalski.
“You know how it goes. Some stuff needs to be kept at arm’s length. A job like this, it could go real bad, real fast. Any clear connection to the senator’s office and the blowback could be politically fatal.”
JC wasn’t giving out any more information. Kowalski sipped his drink. Set it back down on the bar a little harder than necessary. “I gotta tell you, for a short guy, you’ve got quite a punch. My guys were giving me a hard time about that little tussle in front of the library. Well, they were until I made them each write up after-action reports about the incident. Then shredded the reports in front of them.”
JC smiled and shook his head slightly at the insults disguised as good-natured ribbing. Kowalski had half an inch of height over him and the agent was using that half an inch to try and insult JC. That and some stupid tough guy office humor. Trying to be the bigger tough guy, the Alpha male. JC knew there was only one Alpha at the bar and it wasn’t Kowalski.
“Esta bien, amigo. Pinche novatos.” That’s cool, man. Damn rookies.
Kowalski snorted a laugh. “Si.”
JC knew Kowalski had studied Spanish in high school. Hell, who hadn’t? But keeping up with the language was something altogether different. Was Kowalski behind the Bolivians?
“So I met a couple of friends of yours up in Philly,” JC said, taking a chance and opening a can of worms. “Seems like they stopped by one of my cousin’s house and tried to burn it down. Being the loser low-rent muscle that they were, they screwed it up and only burned down the garage. I understand being pissed at me for scoring this job with the senator. I do. But going after my family? Kowalski, you have to know what kind of heaviness that’s going to bring down on your head. And come on, Colombians? Can’t you do better than that?” JC was baiting him. Mix fact, assumption and lies. See which one sticks.
Kowalski stared at JC for a couple of seconds. Looked at his Jack and Coke. Picked up the keys. “I know you think I’m some dumb government hack who couldn’t find my dick with both hands.”
JC shrugged, nodded. “Sounds about right.”
“I am pissed the senator gave the job to you. I’ve been protecting her for six years. I would think she’d trust me enough to come to me with any problems that needed ‘fixing.’“ He spat the word out. “But I’ve done a little reading on you, JC. You’ve screwed up on about four different continents and have made impressively powerful enemies in just about every country you’ve ever set foot in. Don’t make the same mistakes here. Not with the senator.”
Kowalski downed his Jack and Coke. Stood.
“If I get to the point where I want you dead, JC, I won’t dredge up some garbage from your past to cover it. I’ll come straight at you and put a bullet in your head.”
JC smiled. Ice cold. “Good. That’ll make it even easier to see you coming. ’Cause those two limp-dick Bolivians you sent at me? I saw them coming a mile away. Took them out of commission without breaking a sweat.” JC downed his ice tea, motioned to the bartender for another. “Just like I’ll do to you if you start thinking above your pay grade.”
“I’ve got to work with you for the time being. But after that, you’re finished.” Kowalski turned. Started walking to the door. “And clean up your old messes before you start working with the senator,” he said over his shoulder. “Bolivian, Colombian, whatever.”
Chapter 16
Bad Bit of Work in D.C.
Standing in the Bentley showroom on West Olympic in Beverly Hills, Jacob Meier never really understood his son’s need to show other people how much money or power he had. He guessed it came from his mother. She had always enjoyed the finer things that being the wife of a high-powered lawyer had brought her. The clothes, bags and jewelry. The cars. The dinners and trips. Jacob knew her well, though. All of that covered up the sense that she was simply a rich man’s wife. Not a fully realized woman in her own right. He had never felt that way about her. Tried hard to make her understand. But in the fights that couples always had she had brought it up more than once.
She hadn’t left a note, but he knew that was the reason behind her suicide.
He never told Daniel. His son would never know the cause of his mother’s death. Never know of the cover-up he instigated. The phone calls and threats he had made. And carried out in a few instances. Only seven people in the world knew the truth. His son would never be one of them.
The senior Meier watched his son trying to decide between the Bentley Continental Convertible and the Flying Spur. Jacob had always felt that knowledge, power, information and favors were far more valuable commodities than things that could be taken away from you. Sure, he had a nice house in Beverly Hills. Drove a Mercedes. But the house was purchased at a foreclosure auction and the Benz was middle-of-the-road and almost ten years old now. He did these things for appearances. It was not what compelled him, what made him stay late at work or get up early in the morning. But his son took after his departed wife. So he indulged him.
“Get the convertible, Daniel.”
“Yeah, but it rains so much on the East Coast.”
“Then get the Flying Spur.”
“I know, but it looks kind of like a Mercedes Benz. It looks like an old man’s car.”
His son had no idea of the insult he had just made against his father. The salesman heard it, but said nothing, of course. Jacob knew his son meant no harm.
“Danny, you’re not a kid anymore. You will look dignified. Powerful.”
Daniel Meier smiled. Didn’t catch the “look” instead of the “be.”
“Besides,” his father continued, “if anyone confuses a Bentley Flying Spur with a Mercedes Benz… well… fuck ‘em.” His son’s grin grew broader. “They’re beneath you.”
Daniel’s grin disappeared and a look of power overtook his face. He handed the brochure back to the salesman. “The Flying Spur.”
“An excellent choice. Black, sir?”
“No. Grey.”
“Granite or Storm Grey?”
Daniel took the brochure again. Glanced at it. “Brodgar.”
“An uncommon choice. And very refined.”
Jacob felt the salesman was close to crossing the line into being condescending. Daniel showed no hint of displeasure, so Jacob let it pass. He could always get the man fired with a word to the owner of the dealership later. The owner owed Jacob more than a few favors.
As the salesman returned to his office for more paperwork, Jacob and his son looked out the window. Although nearly as tall as his son, Daniel’s frame took after his mother’s. Slim. Narrow hipped. Fit. The senior Meier was the polar oppos
ite. Broad shouldered. Barrel chested. Muscular by design, not nature or effort. Their faces, equally different, matching their bodies. Their eyes, carbon copies.
“Bad bit of work in D.C., Daniel.”
Jacob didn’t want to bring it up. He was waiting for Daniel to initiate the conversation. He had avoided it. So Jacob had to start.
“Honestly, Dad, it’s got nothing to do with me. The senator has pretty much lost her mind.”
Jacob shook his head. He had pulled far too many strings, called in too many favors, for Daniel to get that position just to have him to blow it off like this.
“You’re still not seeing the bigger picture. You don’t like the job?”
“It’s fine, but I just get tired of being her errand boy.”
“You are not her errand boy, son. You are Daniel Meier, son of Jacob Meier, one of the most powerful men in this country. You’ve been educated at the finest institutions in the world. And you’re whining about your job? Your boss has lost her mind?” Jacob’s voice had risen with his anger. “You sound like one of these kids working at some stupid office job over in the valley. Crying about the high-powered executive working above them but never seeing how they can benefit personally from the job.”
Daniel was quiet. “You’re right. I’ve been foolish. Childish. I haven’t utilized my position to further myself, the firm or our family.”
His father looked out the window. How much should I tell the boy? Everything, he decided. “Son, I haven’t told you this, but I’m planning on a major move into defense contracting. That’s why I set up your job with the senator. She’s got her fingers in all kinds of military pies. I need you to be my lead on this.”
“Dad, I never knew.”
“Nobody does, Daniel. I haven’t spoken to anyone about it. Not even in the firm.” He paused. His son was ready. “Listen, our family has been in Los Angeles for forty years now. When your mom and I came here and we started up the firm with our friends, L.A. was a boomtown. So much money to be made here. There still is. I may work with them sometimes, but I don’t give a damn about movies or rock stars. D.C. is the boomtown now. I want to move back to the east coast. Expand our presence there. And being the lawyers for defense contractors and all things military is the way to do it.”
[JC Bannister 01.0] The Fixer, Season 1 Page 9
